Agent Of The Queen

by Malcolm Archibald

  The conversation was not going as Jack would have wished. “We are free to talk,” he said. “I was surprised to see you here, Helen.”

  “I was surprised to hear you were coming. Is it true about the court-martial?”

  Jack nodded. “When Colonel Snodgrass added 20 years' penal servitude, I thought it best not to remain in Britain.”

  Helen's eyes widened, then narrowed thoughtfully. “Twenty years! That's a bit much! How about Mary?”

  Jack forced a casual shrug. “I'll bring her over by and by. What are you doing here? Who was that man who left your room?”

  “Isn't he the handsome one?” Helen's eyes were bright with mischief. “He's the reason I left William.”

  With her passionate nature, Jack would expect Helen to have illicit encounters with other men, but he was surprised she had taken such a drastic step. “You've left William?”

  “Yes,” Helen confirmed. “He was chasing the servant girls and had no time to show me any affection. I told you I was bored at Wychwood Manor.”

  “You did say that,” Jack agreed. “But why join the Fenians?”

  “Why not? My mother was Irish and anyway,” Helen smiled again, “I met Walter.”

  “The tall fellow with the side-whiskers?”

  “That's the man. I met him in Hereford the day after you told me you only wanted to be friends.” Helen looked Jack up and down. “He's exciting, Jack. He's got the same sort of edge that you have, except he's not married.”

  “I don't have an edge,” Jack argued.

  “You have something indefinable.” Helen was no longer smiling. “You attract women, Jack.”

  “I haven't noticed.”

  “I know, and that's also attractive,” Helen said.

  “Are you helping the Fenians? I didn't know your mother was Irish.” Jack remembered Helen's mother as a very redoubtable lady who had survived the tribulations of the Crimea without a complaint. If anybody wished an example of Irish grit, they need look no further.

  “She's from Donegal,” Helen said.

  “Are you a Fenian?”

  Helen shook her head. “Not a bit of it.”

  “You're not a Fenian, yet you inveigled information from young Snodgrass in Ireland and passed it on to the Fenians.” With Helen, it was best to be direct.

  Helen's attempt at innocence was unsuccessful. “He was the sweetest of boys. What a contrast after William.” She touched Jack's arm. “Now don't look so jealous, Jack; you said you don't want me. Compared to my husband, young Peter Snodgrass is a true gentleman.”

  “Your actions got him into trouble,” Jack said softly.

  “My actions? I only asked him what was happening with his regiment. It was hardly stealing the crown jewels or blowing up the houses of parliament.”

  “To whom did you pass on the information?”

  “A very handsome Irishman who treats me like a princess,” Helen said. “The fellow you saw leave my room a moment ago.” Her smile was intended to taunt Jack.

  “That would be Walter. Does he have a surname?”

  “Carmichael,” Helen's smile broadened. “He is Walter Carmichael.”

  Jack nodded. “I'm a bit confused.”

  Helen hesitated. “Walter's different from anybody I've met before. I enjoy the excitement of being near him.” She edged closer until her hip pressed against Jack's. “I still prefer you, though.”

  “So you claim,” Jack said. “One man at a time should suffice, Helen.”

  “Why?” Helen's smile was as innocent as the serpent in Eden as her hand strayed on to Jack's leg.

  “I'm still married.” Jack did not remove Helen's hand. He knew me might need her help later.

  “Mary's in England,” Helen said. “I'm here now. Unless you tell her, she will never know.” Her hand moved slightly higher up his thigh.

  The knock at the door saved Jack.

  “Helen, it's me, Walter.”

  Jack stepped to the centre of the room. “Let Walter in, Helen. I wish to meet my rival for your affections.” For some reason, he grinned as a surge of excitement ran through him. Rather than looking ashamed or at least apprehensive, Helen met his smile.

  “This should be interesting,” Helen murmured. “Come in, Walter,” she called.

  Tall and elegant, Walter Carmichael strode in and hesitated when he saw Jack standing in the middle of the room.

  “Good evening, Carmichael,” Jack said evenly. “I am Jack Windrush.” He held out his hand.

  “Good evening.” Carmichael took Jack's hand. “Walter Carmichael.” His eyes were light blue and more wary than Jack had expected.

  “You know Mrs Helen Windrush of course,” Jack said.

  “Mrs Windrush?” Carmichael dropped Jack's hand and reached inside his jacket. “Are you..?”

  “No, I'm neither Helen's husband nor her brother,” Jack said. “You won't need that pistol you're reaching for.”

  Carmichael dropped his hand. “Who are you then? Is Windrush a common name in England?”

  “I've known Mrs Windrush for years.” Jack avoided the question. “Is Carmichael a common name in Ireland?” He noticed that Carmichael's hand was resting on his belt, still close to the bulge inside his jacket.

  “Common enough.”

  Jack could see Carmichael's eyes move from him to Helen and back. “Was there some reason you wished to see my sister-in-law?” he enquired mildly.

  “Your sister-in-law?” Carmichael echoed.

  “Jack!” Helen slapped his arm. “Stop teasing the poor man! You've got Walter so confused he doesn't know if it's Monday or Christmas.” Taking hold of Jack's arm, she pushed him towards the door. “Now thank you for visiting, and it's time to go away. Walter and I have things to discuss.”

  “I'm leaving,” Jack said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Carmichael, however briefly. I can sense that Helen wants to be alone with you.” He opened the door and stepped outside, lingering in the corridor to hear what was said.

  “Is he genuinely your brother-in-law?” Carmichael asked.

  “He is. When I married his half-brother, Jack married a half-breed Indian woman.” Jack knew that Helen was forcing her mocking laughter.

  “I don't trust him,” Carmichael said. “What did you tell him about me?”

  “I told him you introduced me to the Fenians,” Helen said. “Now come here and stop wasting time.”

  When the silence extended for five minutes, broken only by the odd giggle, Jack realised that he would learn nothing useful so, feeling like a Peeping Tom, he walked away, trying to assess all that he had learned.

  Helen had left William to be with this Walter Carmichael fellow. Given his last conversation with Helen at Netherhills, Jack was not surprised, for Helen was given to impulsive actions and would follow whatever whim entered her head at the time. More importantly, Jack knew there was something not right with Carmichael. Riordan and Regan both had doubts about his nationality, and now Carmichael had taken Helen under his wing. But why? Jack had no illusions that a recruiter for the Fenians would fall under Helen's charms, evident though they were. The sort of man who put his life at risk every day would be too dedicated to his cause, whatever it might be. Carmichael had another reason for befriending Helen apart from her femininity; presumably to use her to dredge information from young dupes such as Ensign Snodgrass.

  Leaving the house, Jack walked around the nighttime grounds with his hands behind his back and his head down. If Carmichael was the foreign recruiter for the Fenians in England, why was he now in the United States and for whom was he working? Jack paused. After the suffering in Ireland, Carmichael might even have genuine sympathy for the Irish cause.

  Jack looked up as somebody emerged from the house carrying a lantern, no doubt to see who was perambulating the grounds. He waited for the man to approach. He had succeeded in infiltrating the Fenians but Helen added a complication to his task. Now he had to contact Smith to inform him what was happening. To do that, h
e needed more freedom, and that meant winning the trust of these people.

  “Hey!” The man with the lantern approached. “Who are you?”

  “It's me, Cormac.” Jack did not attempt to hide. “Jack Windrush. I think we'll have to work on making this place more secure. I've been wandering around for 15 minutes without once being challenged.”

  * * *

  After that evening, Jack altered his strategy. Rather than merely drilling the men, he began to train them properly, although never to quite the same standard he had in the 113th. As winter drew in, the weather deteriorated and the campaigning season closed, Jack knew that there would be no invasion of Canada or anywhere else until the spring.

  “You're driving them hard,” O'Mahony said as Jack drilled the men on a day of driving snow.

  “We fought in worse conditions in Crimea,” Jack said. “If these lads have to face the British Army, they'll need to be good.”

  O'Mahony gave a sad smile. “Many are veterans of the war here. They're aware of the reality of combat.”

  “Aye, I know that,” Jack said. “But facing ill-equipped and half-starved Confederates is one thing. Fighting trained and experienced British infantry is something else.”

  “Are the British good?” O'Mahony asked seriously.

  Jack considered the question. “Trained British infantry is as good as any in the world,” he said. “When well-led, I'd say they were the best,” he smiled, “but there again, I would, wouldn't I?”

  “What are you doing today?” O'Mahony asked.

  “Rifle drill.” Jack held up the Springfield rifle. “This is a decent weapon; it's not as good as our Enfield, but not bad.”

  “We're getting better weapons,” O'Mahony said. “There's a shipment of Spencer repeaters coming tomorrow.”

  Jack nodded. “I've read about them.”

  “Read more. You'll be training the men in their use.” Nearly smiling, O'Mahony drifted away, humming a song that Jack did not recognise.

  The Spencer impressed Jack. “This is a seven-shot, .52 Calibre Spencer repeater,” he said, holding it up for his men to see. “There are two models, carbine and rifle. I will train you in both, with the lighter, younger men as light infantry or skirmishers with the carbines and the older men using the rifles.”

  The Fenians nodded, accepting his word. Jack knew that they trusted him.

  “The rifle is 47 inches long, with a weight of 10 pounds, and uses a rim-fire brass cartridge. You'll like that.” Jack waited for the nervous laugh. “The carbine is shorter, at 39 inches, and nearly two pounds lighter so better for skirmishing and light infantry work. You load both through the butt,” Jack continued, demonstrating, “which is far faster and easier than ramming balls down the muzzle.”

  The veterans nodded, each man reliving memories of frantically reloading a rifle under fire. The recruits tried to look knowledgeable.

  “One last thing; we still have to cock the hammer before every shot.” Jack grinned. “I know that sounds like hard work, but I'm sure you will manage it.” He expected the resulting laugh and tried to prevent himself from liking these men. They were the enemy, Fenians who could soon be facing British soldiers, yet when he looked at them, he only saw Irishmen very similar to those he knew in the British Army.

  Splitting his men into line infantry and skirmishers, Jack made them march, trained the recruits and wondered if his actions made him a traitor. He also wondered how these men would stand against the 113th Foot. The Spencer repeater gave them an advantage in firepower, and some of the Fenians who had grown up in rural areas were excellent skirmishers with a natural eye for cover.

  “These lads could give anybody a run for their money,” Jack reported to O'Mahony.

  “Good.” O'Mahony nodded. “Even your famous Guards?”

  Jack smiled. “Perhaps. I haven't seen them march, though,” he continued. “Oh, they can walk around the grounds of this house, but so could a group of schoolboys. Soldiers need to march to get anywhere.” He grinned. “I think the French Foreign Legion has a motto: 'March or Die'.”

  “How far do you want to take them?”

  “Five miles the first time, 10 miles the next and then increase the distance.”

  O'Mahony contemplated Jack before coming to a decision. “You'll need a map, then, or you'll get lost.”

  “Where are we?” Jack tried to sound casual. “I know we're somewhere in Maine.”

  “That's where we are,” O'Mahony said with a grin. “We're in Presque House, only a long spit from the border with New Brunswick, British-owned territory.”

  Jack nodded. “Handy for an invasion.”

  “That's the idea,” O'Mahony said. “I'll find you a map.”

  They were about five miles from the New Brunswick border, with the house eight miles from the nearest town of Baring. Jack studied the map, making a circular route for his men to march, taking them as close as possible to British territory. He wondered if he should break away and run for the border to report all he had discovered so far.

  No, he decided. Not yet. He had to find out more about Carmichael and, God help him, try to get Helen away. He still felt something for that woman, despite their uneasy history. He would leave when he had more specific information about O'Mahony's plans.

  Smith's words came to him. “If you find him, I want you to kill him.”

  Jack paused for a second. Could he assassinate Carmichael? He shivered at the thought. What would Mary think of him? He could not tell her. How would Helen react if he murdered her lover?

  Jack shook his head. Helen would possibly believe he had killed Carmichael out of jealousy. She might even be thrilled. Shaking away what was a disturbing thought, Jack returned to training his men.

  “Right, you scoundrels! Let's see how well you can march. We can't fight unless we can reach the Limeys; let's cock a snook at the British Empire!”

  The men laughed, with some making high-spirited comments, as Jack would expect from an Irish regiment.

  As he left the grounds of the house, he was aware of two men following his unit and grinned. That would be Cormac and Dermot, his guard dogs. That was fine. They were large, muscular men, but now he would see how fit they were. Glancing at the house, Jack saw Helen watching from her window, with Carmichael hovering behind her.

  Yes, Carmichael, you watch real men while you canoodle with shapely women. Jack felt a surge of dislike. He glanced over his command. I much prefer these Fenians – they may be enemies of the Crown, but they are honest. More honest than me, by heavens.

  “Come on, lads!” Suddenly angry, Jack led his men into the thick forest that surrounded the house, forcing them to march through the snow. “Keep up with me.”

  As always, the cold weather made the old Burmese wound in Jack's thigh ache, but he enjoyed the freedom of being away from the house. After a couple of miles, he halted the men in a clearing and split them in two, pushing the skirmishers on to the flanks.

  “I want to see how good you are,” Jack was aware of Cormac and Dermot hovering 100 yards behind, trying to hide in the trees. “Load,” he ordered, suddenly reckless. “Live bullets, lads!” He raised his voice. “British patrol has come behind us! Three rounds rapid-fire!”

  Jack watched as the Fenians turned and fired, with the loading ragged but much faster than with single-shot rifles. Although he did not expect them to hit Cormac or Dermot, he hoped the demonstration taught his watchers to keep their distance.

  “Well done! I want more precision next time, though. We'll need more training shooting at marks.”

  After the shooting display, Jack led his men on a fast march through the trees and back to the house. “Tomorrow 10 miles, lads,” Jack told them as he marched them back. He saw O'Mahony watching, “and we'll have a look at the enemy as well.”

  “Where are you taking them?” O'Mahony asked.

  “Right to the frontier,” Jack replied cheerfully. “There's nothing better for blooding the pups then letting them see
the enemy.”

  “You're getting them prepared,” O'Mahony commented approvingly.

  “I am,” Jack agreed. “I've been on campaign with Johnny Raws before. They're five times the work of veterans and have a tenth the capability. The more the lads see before the fighting starts, the better.” He glanced over his shoulder as Cormac and Dermot emerged through the trees, shaking the snow off their boots.

  “Well done,” Jack shouted over to them. “You kept up like heroes!” He did not look at Helen, who stood at the door, holding a shawl over her shoulders.

  * * *

  “According to the map,” Jack said, “New Brunswick is across the St Croix river there.” He indicated the 100-yard wide strip of ice and water that glittered under the thin sun.

  He had 30 men with him, the skirmishers of his Fenians. Some stared across without expression on their faces while others looked willing to march on Fredericton without delay or support.

  “I want five volunteers,” Jack said.

  “What are we going to do?” A long-faced man asked.

  “We're going to invade British North America,” Jack said. “Who's game?”

  “I'm game!” the long-faced man replied immediately, with others surging forward eagerly.

  “What's your name?” Jack asked.

  “Murphy, sir, Sean Murphy,” the long-faced man answered with a grin.

  “Right, Murphy, you're my corporal.”

  Jack picked five men from the dozen volunteers and probed the river. Although the ice near the banks held their weight, the centre of the river was deeper than he expected.

  “Look for a boat,” he said. “Anything that floats.”

  An hour-long search found an isolated house with an open boat, barely large enough to hold five people. Jack tested the hull, found it sound and had his men drag it to the edge of the ice.

  “In we go boys; let's show the Limeys.”

  Murphy raised a cheer and began to sing:

  “We've won many victories

  Along with the boys in blue,

  Now we'll conquer Canada because there's

  Nothing left to do.”

  “We're not conquering it today,” Jack said. “We're only having a look at New Brunswick.”